


In the Silent Spaces

by Elleth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Female Characters, Gen, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/pseuds/Elleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Finrod's abdication and departure, Finduilas struggles to uphold order in Nargothrond in whatever way she can, and finds herself involved, if quietly, in momentous events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Silent Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> Zdenka, I hope you'll enjoy this. I tried to incorporate as many ideas from your letter as I could possibly fit into the fic, and I very much hope it turned into a readable mix in the end. It was lots of fun exploring a character and type of story I never got to write before - thank you very much for such an intriguing assignment.

_Dear Mother,_

_I found myself wishing, often of late, that you were here rather than at the Havens. Although I understand very well that politics demand us to have an active voice among Círdan's people, allies though they are, and that you are best suited to it, I miss you. Your counsel here is much needed, both by Father and by myself. His goodwill is great, but to see him struggle against the intrusions of the Sons of Fëanor into his power more than they ever dared under uncle Finrod's rule pains me, frightens me, and fills me with more wrath than I ever thought myself capable of. Gwindor has been a comfort, and he has been unfailingly kind with me, in ways that make me all the more certain of the decision to marry him, if he is willing. We have come a long way - from racing over Talath Dirnen together as children, and you and the lady Mirwain watching our steps - to much more perilous territory._

_Forgive me if my account is confused. Much has happened, and it is hard to put it in plain order, and yet more so since my feelings run high within me._

_Not very long ago, Celegorm and Curufin returned from the wolf-hunt they had gone on following uncle Finrod's departure. Although our scouts reported a great number of wolves upon Talath Dirnen before it, the reception of their announcement to go hunting was mixed: I am relieved to report that more and more people seem to believe our suspicions of Celegorm and Curufin's intent to rule, although not all are opposed, and even several of the lords support them. But their insistence on hunting the wolves of Tol-in-Gaurhoth of all things seems to me an indication that they are actively seeking tidings of the mortal and uncle Finrod's quest, especially as their machinations left Father sitting deedless once again. And where the wolf howls, the orc prowls, as the saying goes. Undoubtedly the idea of gaining one of their accursed Silmarils led them to press their advantage; they would fare better in the war if Nargothrond were under their command with all her people and resources fully in their hands. This places us, perhaps, in danger. Father and I have spoken long and often on this, and I pray that it remains a fear only that has been growing in our minds only due to our extensive discussion of it. I cannot say for certain – but other knowledge drives me to believe it is true, and on a far larger scale than previously expected. For returning from the hunt, Celegorm and Curufin brought, as they professed, a guest – or rather, a captive: The lady Lúthien of Doriath, who escaped her father's realm to seek the son of Barahir whom she loves, only to fall into what she could not have known were worse hands. She dwells under arrest in Nargothrond now, and the people of Celegorm and Curufin guard her even when she is allowed to stretch her limbs and walk the halls. No one is permitted to speak with her, although she has found a companion in Huan, who refuses to leave her side. (I pity the hound that Celegorm chose as his current companion; the poor beast has not even been given a name, and he is kinder than he ought to be considering the nature of his master). I only saw her once and from afar, but the lady seems as fair as all the songs and stories tell, and it is plain that many who looked upon her, men and women alike, did so with admiration - but also with envy, and many with lust. I should not be so shocked that the same is true for both Celegorm and Curufin, but that for the moment is a slim comfort of sorts. For Celegorm is quick to rise to scorn and jealousy, and Curufin is as easily kindled to wrath as his father was, and swift to obsess or wish to possess. Plainly, both desire her, and have sent messages to Doriath out of interest in wedding her to achieve kinship with Thingol. Thus nearly all realms of the Eldar in Beleriand would be under their command, or at least so tied with them that entanglements are inevitable. I am uncertain yet if I ought to attempt to use he brothers' rivalry for the lady to discredit them, or whether the danger outweighs the risks in this case._

_But there is one more thing that moves me deeply, and that is the lady's grief at being set captive without the means to escape. I have had mine and my maids' ears open when going among the people, and word from such hunters as were in the host spread quickly in Nargothrond, neither inadvertantly nor accidentally, I think: She had an enchanted cape of shadow taken away into Celegorm's keeping, so that she now cannot free herself short of unleashing what power she inherited from her lady mother, and thus likely bringing destruction upon Nargothrond. Even though her lover lies captive (or so it is said) and his frailty as a Mortal Man should not be underestimated, she is showing goodwill toward the people of Nargothrond who stand innocent of such betrayal of hospitality. Not only should that go rewarded with such aid as I can give, it may also, ultimately serve us: for unless a much stranger fate has befallen him, then where Beren is kept, uncle Finrod and his ten men are kept as well, and perhaps she may yet avail to free them. Uncle's return, I hope, would end the tribulations we are facing here. Would that I were warrior enough to set out with her! But I will do what must be done, plot and ploy as I can, and hope that all turns toward the best._

_Your loving daughter,_  
Finduilas

* * *

Finduilas set her quill aside, and laid out the letter. Already the earlier portions of her writing were vanishing as the ink dried, leaving an innocuous white sheet. She got to work again, gathering dried flowers from the wreath she had worn at the autumn festival, and a stack of letters to her mother and kin fled from Dorthonion staying at the Falas with her, tied with ribbons and dealing with all the simpler affairs of Nargothrond, the dainty joys and sorrows that people would expect the princess to have, and that would keep anyone who intercepted her messenger in the dark about her true intent. The letter, finally dried, she folded carefully as an envelope around the flowers; her mother would know to examine that one more closely.

She jumped when the evening bell tolled outside the balcony of her chamber, and the deep sound ricocheted off the walls until it seemed there were many more bells in fading echoes of each other, rather than just one. It seemed she had worn the afternoon away with her writings, and indeed, when she looked to the small windows that peeked above ground, the sky was darkening. Below her balcony, which looked down upon the main market hall, the bustle increased momentarily as the remaining merchants packed their wares and closed their shops, and then quiet swiftly settled as the people returned to their families.

She sighed. It meant that she would be expected to attend dinner soon, and of late both Celegorm and Curufin had invited themselves as guests at the royal table, hemming in her father on either side while they devoured whatever the cooks brought. Sometimes it made her wonder if they were intentionally seeking to sap the royal coffers as well, but more likely they were looking to emphasize their presence and power.

As Finduilas entered the chamber, dressed in simple white and barefoot, they were already there, though her father was still absent. Curufin sat in Finrod's chair, the one that Orodreth would usually occupy, and did not bother to rise, although they both eyed her as though she were prey and she could not help but wonder what that meant as she took her place at the opposite end of the table.

Dinner passed in an uneasy quiet. Barely any taste of food registered in her mind, and she might as well have been chewing paper, but all the same she kept her head lowered demurely until, once the plates had been cleared away and the servants dismissed, Curufin slid from his seat – the correct one now, but he had only risen from Orodreth's once the door opened to admit him – and began to circle the table to stand behind her.

Curufin's hand slipped through her hair, and the composure that it cost Finduilas to lift her head and hold it still and high made her wonder if the same strength exerted differently would enable her to heave the great doors of Nargothrond from their hinges.

"We must consider the very real possibility, Orodreth," he said, continuing to circle, though with his hands now clasping, mercifully, behind his back, "that Finrod will not return and the crown will sit upon your brow forever, unless you take action." Her father clenched his teeth to forestall a reply, and undoubtedly Curufin's snake-eyes saw it, too. "Most are aware that you would make a weak king, neither capable of protection by strength of arms, as you so plainly proved when you stood silent rather than to follow your brother, nor by secrecy much longer if Finrod lies captive, as we must assume, and will surely yield all secrets to Nargothrond by whatever torture the Enemy bestows upon him."

Finduilas took a sip of wine and lowered her head, wiping feebly at the corner of her eye. So here they were, at last confirming what so far had been public rumor. If they had become so brazen that they would insult her father openly and gloat over Finrod's misery, she hoped they had, also, become blind in their arrogance. She sniffed. Let Curufin continue to assume she were frail and weepy, and in that, harmless. As though he were kindly, he stepped up behind her chair again and rested both hands on her shoulders.

"But you have a daughter, Orodreth," he said. "She is of marriageable age, and I do have a son. Such a union would undo many of the wrongs now plaguing the realm, and it might ease her grief at losing a beloved kinsman, too."

Finduilas' heart seemed to skip a beat. _Gwindor_ , she thought, but that was washed away by a flood of cool anger, like the clear spring thaws that would sweep Narog every year, and she imagined the water rising, climbing across the terraces, pooling through the doors, extinguishing the forges of Curufin, and extinguishing him as well. If any hint of it was visible on the outside then no one let on, and she was glad that Curufin could not at the moment see her face.

She took another drink and rolled her shoulders. Curufin's hands remained in place, and through the thin layers of her gown she could feel the heat of his forge-roughened touch. He leaned heavily on her, the only warning she had of him bending forward over the back of her chair so they were cheek to cheek, almost, and his eye glanced at her from the side.

"What say you, Finduilas? Celebrimbor is a handsome man; he is inquisitive, talented, if a little too kind for his own good."

She liked Celebrimbor, who had never shared his father's vicissitudes, and his father was not exaggerating in extolling his virtues. Marrying him – aside from the dreadful family and their especial curse, and aside from Gwindor whom she loved, and whom Curufin knew she loved – would not be the worst lot to fall upon her. She drew that thought close to herself, and imagined she did not love Gwindor to lend her voice sincerety.

"I am flattered by the offer, but it is not my place to decide such weighty things, and I am afraid the arrangements are beyond me. Has there been no answer from Doriath regarding the lady Lúthien, whom I thought you sought to make union with, either with yourself or with Celebrimbor?"

Across the table, where he had been lounging with a hand absently in the fur of his new companion hound, large and sleek and dark-furred, rather than Huan's grey, Celegorm straightened up with furrowed brow, and Curufin withdrew with a laugh that she knew was forced. She permitted her tense shoulders a respite.

"Foolish girl," Curufin said with another laugh, as false as his first, because if nothing else then he had begun seeing through her proposed innocence this moment – but as of yet he could lay no hand on her with the intent of harm. They were not yet so unquestioned that the people had ceased to love and wish to protect their princess, and she was the Fëanorians' next best legitimation to rule Nargothrond, if they even still cared for such things. Curufin could not oust her, too, without jeopardizing the game he was playing, and not if his considerations had been sincere rather than the threads of yet another ploy.

His moment's deliberation passed. "Beside the fact that I am married already, of course it falls to the elder of us to have the lady Lúthien as bride," Curufin said. His voice was remarkably measured in face of the setback, because Celegorm's frown had not abated. Finduilas' smile at her success, a minor but certainly needling one in such plans as she had, died not merely on her lips but in her mind as she realized that she herself was susceptible to the fear of treason and intrigue; even the kinder members of the House of Finwë were not immune. She was by no means always kind, and as word went, she possessed her uncle's mind and spirit rather than her father's quieter one. He had been driven out by treason, too.

She missed Finrod. She hated that he had stood alone, or nearly so, and that the populace had been cowed before the Fëanorians so easily because he, a man and a leader, was expected to fend for himself, or die trying. She hated that the Fëanorians had grown so strong. She hated that they were surely going to go after their father, and she hated that her threat had taken such an abruptely different form.

She drained her goblet and set it on the table, lightly, then rose and felt the hem of her dress sweep over her bare feet.

"Father, my lords, I fear I cannot answer this question without further deliberation, so I shall take my leave. Will you be very long yet?"

"Your father and I have plenty of discussion awaiting us, Finduilas," Curufin said with a raised eyebrow. It seemed he had regained his momentum, and she saw her father's lips tighten ever so briefly before he nodded. "There are matters of state to discuss, and we will likely be here far into the night. Go on, my dear; there is no need for you to listen to the rambling of three dreary old men."

She rounded the table to her father's high-backed chair and kissed his brow. "Thank you, Father. I shall be taking a walk, perhaps to visit Gwindor, or the lady Ivrellain. She gave birth to a daughter two nights ago and has been asking for me to see her." Her former teacher had done that indeed, and there was a comfort of knowing that she and her husband stood close to Finrod, and circumstance rather than loyalty had prevented Celíros from supporting Finrod openly. They never had, and never would, sympathize with the Fëanorians. But they were only an alibi, people she could count on to not betray her.

As Finduilas stepped from the house into the main hall, the dimming of the lamps in the main halls was past, and few people remained in the market square. As she wended her way down from the main halls, she hummed a popular lay, and met with smiling faces in the people she encountered that momentarily hid both fear and sorrow. Celegorm and Curufin would never see those, at the very least, feared rather than loved as they were, and it settled a warm kernel of satisfaction and encouragement in her stomach as she walked. Perhaps all would be well yet.

It was that conviction, growing stronger as she went, that made her wonder if she ought to attempt her plan now, risking no further delay. There were drawbacks, certainly – she did not know the schedule of the guard, did not know how she would even come to Lúthien's door if it were guarded, or even how she would escape, if that were possible at all. But if not now, if she stayed her hand tonight and wavered, there would be no saying when she would next work up the confidence or find an opportunity to act.

As though on their own, her silent feet turned toward the rougher-hewn stairs that led to the forges, armouries, storage halls, and on the deepst levels, the treasury – and the cells, such as Nargothrond had. These places, her uncle had once explained to her, had been left near-unchanged from the delvings of the Noegyth Nibin, who had begun these halls, and the only work had been done in extending and expanding their delvings. There was very little artistry, nor even very careful craftwork, and they stood as a stark contrast to the polished stones of the upper levels and great halls that the people inhabited.

Lost in her thoughts, her foot hit level ground and made her stumble forward. Finduilas only caught herself with a hand on the rough wall. Down here there was no need to impress, but rather, if there was any purpose to the low ceilings and rougher corridors, then it was to intimidate, and the intent did not fail in its purpose. Almost she felt there was an echo of steps behind her, and the glow of satisfaction, perhaps even more than a little spite, nearly sparked out in a draft of cool air and the humming in the rock that showed how close to the river Narog she must be, rushing somewhere alongside the corridor she traversed.

Ahead around a bend, cool light shone steadily – not the flicker of torches or a brazier, but rather the cool glow of Fëanorian lamps. Finduilas stopped, breathing shallowly, and flattened herself against the wall in a moment of hesitation. If they caught her sneaking, Curufin and Celegorm would certainly hear of it; what authority she had as a princess held very little sway with them, and she would count herself lucky if she would not be placed under similar arrest as Lúthien was now.

But as she stood for a while, she became aware of the muffled sound of talking in a woman's voice, and otherwise, that there was silence. No answering voice, no footsteps, rustle of clothes, or anything other than the lamplight that would hint at any guards' presence. Finduilas swallowed, and risked a step over the resistance of her limbs and her mind all but screaming at her to turn and leave.

Another step. Her fingers curled against the rock wall for support, her mouth was dry, and she strained her ears for any sound, her eyes for any shifting shadow that might be a guard crossing the glow of the lamps. Nothing.

She dared a glimpse around the corner, her body strung to turn and flee if anybody was there. A cloak, in hunter's green and embroidered with the eight-pointed star of the House of Fëanor hung on a peg in the wall between the lamps set there, but whomever of Celegorm's people it had belonged to had gone. There was no one there. Still there merely was the woman's voice talking, and, being closer now, she could discern the mellifluous, antique speech of Doriath, that her aunt Galadriel had adopted as effortlessly as she did anything else, and that the messengers from King Thingol had often carried into court with near-pompous gravity. She had never quite heard it like that, with the deep, rich trilling of nightingales under the boughs of ancient trees, and that finally gave her the incentive to round the corner entirely.

In the shadow by the door lay a great grey shape. When it spotted her, there was a sound like the chafing of stone over stone, a hoarse bark of greeting, and then Huan's form rose out of the patch of dark, wagging tail and lolling tongue. He bumped his great head against her chest in greeting, then turned his amber eyes on the door and gave a high-pitched whine. Lúthien's voice had stilled, although it then came again, quavering through the wood – but quavering with anger rather than grief. "Who goes there? Leave, if you have returned to taunt me, unless you would have Huan drive you off again, and show less mercy this time!"

Finduilas laughed softly; so _this_ explained the absence of guards. She could not have come at a more convenient time, she thought as she knelt by the door and Huan sat with her, easily higher than she was.

"It is Finduilas, the daughter of Orodreth," she said quietly with her face pressed into the corner of door and frame. "I have not come to mock you; I seek only to help."

There came a whispered word and the click of the lock, and a slender hand waved her into the darkness of the room. Huan laid down in his former place again, his face resting on his front paws. His tail wagged once, then he closed his eyes.

"How would you help me?" came the voice, bitter, from the dark.

"You are not captive, lady?" Finduilas asked after the door closed. Her incredulity must have been plain, because Lúthien sat, the bitterness suddenly vanishing, and laughed sadly. "Locks will do little to deter or detain the daughter of Melian, daughter of Orodreth. I am not so powerless that I could not go free if I so wished in the absence of guards to keep me here, but leaving Nargothrond without strength of arms or the cloak I spun – I would not find what I seek before I myself fell prey to some wild thing, or were set captive by less kindly jailors. It is secrecy that matters in this errand, and without my cloak to hide myself I cannot achieve it," she said in the plain Sindarin that Finduilas herself had learned as her mother's tongue. In the half-light of the moon that was creeping through the barred window high above, she could see tears glisten on Lúthien's cheek where she sat on her bed. "And if Beren is fated to die in the dungeons of Gorthaur, I will die as he does, even if our ways beyond death differ – not even my powers avail to change that."

"And Nargothrond will perish if you stay."

Lúthien looked up. Her eyes shone in the darkness, and she wiped her face until it was unblemished again, waiting for Finduilas to continue. Finduilas hesitated; the weight in Lúthien's gaze seemed to press as heavy on her as Curufin's hands had on her shoulders, but then the awe – not fear, curiously – lifted, and she began to speak of Curufin and Celegorm and the oath and the shadow upon the House of Fëanor, of the rumors they had been spreading, of Curufin's proposals, all the contents of her mother's letters that weighed upon her heart, and of the news she had learned this evening.

"... and I would that all were well again, and their viciousness thwarted," she sighed. "But nothing will come of it unless Finrod were to return to take up his reign again after you have achieved your errand."

"But I cannot, not without my cloak - not if, as you said it is rumored, Celegorm keeps it. It is a mercy that it is not destroyed, so there may be hope yet. If only I could gain it, then both our wishes might come true."

Warm, fine hands clasped Finduilas's own. "Find the cloak," Lúthien said, leaning nearer. "If you do, my escape is near-certain. With it I fled the guards that watched at the foot of Hírilorn, and no alarm was raised until I was far away. With it I can flee Nargothrond as well. But do not touch it – the enchantment upon it would cast you into sleep immediately; the only creatures it did not overwhelm are me and Huan – and I would swear before my mother's people that he understands all that is said, and indeed that he has heard all that we spoke here. But if anything is to happen, it must be done swiftly. There is a change of guards at morrowdim; by then he must have brought it and I must have gone, or this hope is dashed."

Finduilas nodded. Clasping Lúthien's hands and kissing them, she dared a smile. "All will be well, lady, and I wish you many long years of joy with your Beren. You will always be welcome as true guests in Nargothrond restored." Lúthien merely smiled, and Finduilas felt her heart stir.

When she stepped outside the door, and that shut softly behind her, Huan was already waiting. His claws clicked over the rock floor as they hastened through the quiet of Nargothrond past midnight; and halted only outside the home that Curufin and Celegorm inhabited. Finduilas caught her breath. The windows were dark – likely the council session had ended while she had spoken with Lúthien, and they were asleep, but this door, too, was locked to any such slight rattling as she dared.

Huan nudged her. _Go_ , he seemed to say. _The rest is my task. Trust me to find the cloak and bring it to her_ , and when she still looked at him, he nudged her again, this time shoving with the considerable strength of his large head, until she took a step, another, and then turned and fled. Behind her, she could hear him begin to whine piteously for attention, and scratch on the wood of the door with both front paws. Someone surely would open to him soon.

It was not far to her own home, where all lights were out. Finduilas slipped inside unseen, and then, only then, she the enormity of the situation caught up with her, all her conviction fading – what if Huan failed to find the cloak, what if Lúthien were spotted despite it all, what if there had not been enough time and her escape failed? Finduilas slid down the wall, pressed her hands to her burning cheeks – hands that had touched the lady Lúthien – and waited until she could muster enough composure to continue to her room, to slide into bed without ablutions or even change of dress. Sleep settled upon her as though her blanket were Lúthien's cloak. Once, she thought, half-waking, that there was the same hoarse barking below her balcony that Huan had greeted her with before, but it might as well have been a dream. She hoped, and returned to sleep.

Finduilas woke to the sound of many bells, echoing through the market and the other caves, echoing throughout the city and rousing her people in the grey light before dawn. It was not the mournful tolling of the evening bell, but the clear, high swift, ringing tone of frantic alarm: _Escape! Escape! Escape!_

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to Anna for the beta; this fic would be a ruin without your help and patience. 
> 
> I made use of several versions of canon - the Lays of Beleriand, among others, for the timeline, and much of the portrayal of Finduilas was informed by her resolve and determination in the Children of Húrin, mixed with a gracious helping of my own ideas born from the assignment, and I hope none of them clash too badly with canon. Finduilas' mother (for whom I could not come up with a fitting name) being from Dorthonion originally and living at the Havens was informed by a version that offers some information her, namely being a Sindarin Lady of the North who departs for the Havens following the Bragollach (if for different reasons than safety, or Gil-galad, who does not factor into this fic at all).
> 
> "Where the wolf [warg] howls, [there also] the orc prowls" is a proverb cited by Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings. I modified it slightly here, simply for the sake of implying an in-world tradition of it being passed down, changed and adapted from the First Age. 
> 
> Finally, replacement!Huan, as he has been dubbed short of having an actual name, is a character of Zeen's, who graciously allowed me to use him in my own stories - thank you.


End file.
